Silent Soldiers
by Daine
Summary: They are the unsung, the forgotten. They will never be a Boy Who Lived. Yet their victories, unnoticed and uncelebrated, mean the difference between victory and defeat. Part Five: Terry Boot now posted.
1. Neville Longbottom: It Could Never Be Me

They are the unsung, the forgotten. They will never be a Boy Who Lived. Yet their victories, unnoticed and uncelebrated, mean the difference between victory and defeat.

**Silent Soldiers: Neville Longbottom**

_It Could Never Be Me_

Neville slowly crept down the dormitory stairs. It was nearly midnight, and he would risk extremely harsh punishments if caught out of bed. If his roommates had awakened and seen him, he would have claimed that he needed a drink of water, but no one moved. _Not that they'd care if they did see me_, Neville thought. _No one ever cares._

He was nearly down to the common room when he heard voices. He froze on the steps, not wanting to be discovered. The voices, although mere whispers, carried clearly to where he stood. Neville hesitated. Now what? He couldn't leave the tower with people watching, and it would be unthinkably rude to eavesdrop on these people's conversation when they so obviously wanted it to be a secret.

He'd just have to go back up to the dormitory and wait for them to leave. Neville chewed on his lower lip anxiously. But then it might be too late…

His head jerked. He had distinctly heard his name among the whispers below him. Neville even thought he recognized the voice. He sat down on the steps and peered cautiously around the corner of the stairwell.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were standing in a little circle, arguing furiously. He frowned. What were they doing up? Then he heard his name again and began eavesdropping shamelessly. 

*   *   * 

"…don't know if we can trust him," Ron hissed angrily. 

Harry glared back at his friend. "There's no reason not to," he said angrily. 

"You guys," Hermione whispered anxiously, peering around the room. "Keep it down!"

"Listen to me, Harry," Ron said urgently, ignoring Hermione. "I know you like to believe the best in people, but you have to be open to the possibility that someone could betray you!"

"Not Neville," Harry said firmly. Neville's heart constricted. They were talking about him? They thought he might betray them to Voldemort?

"Harry, stop being so stubborn! A traitor helped You-Know-Who before; who's to say that he might not try to convert someone again? And who better than someone from your own dormitory?"  

Harry was adamant. "Maybe so, but Neville wouldn't do it."

Ron looked ready to continue arguing when Hermione spoke up. "He might have a point, Harry," she said worriedly.

He rounded on her in disbelief. "Don't tell me you think Neville would turn against us, too?" 

Hermione looked very unhappy, but she continued her explanation. "You remember what happened to your dad. How Peter Pettigrew…" Her voice trailed off momentarily. "You know what Professor McGonagall said. About how Peter followed your dad around and…well…wasn't quite as talented as of his friends? I don't mean to speak badly of Neville, but he _is_ a lot like that…history repeats itself, you know, and there are certainly enough similarities between then and now."

Harry looked into his friends' eyes, then to the ground. "I know, Hermione, but I just can't believe it of Neville."

"Don't you think that's what your father believed about Peter?" she asked quietly.

Harry stared at her again. "But this isn't the same!" he insisted.

"Like hell it isn't!" Ron blurted out. "How is this any different?"

"Have you ever wondered why Neville's grandmother raised him?" Harry asked quietly. Neville's heart pounded painfully in his temples. Ron and Hermione blinked. 

"Well, I guess…I never thought about it," said Ron. "What does that have to do with anything?"  

"A lot," Harry answered. He held up a hand to forestall questions. "It isn't my story to tell. Ask Neville, if you like. But believe me, Neville would never join someone who has made him suffer as much as he has." 

That made his companions fall silent. Ron, however, could not stay silent for long. "That could be an incentive for him to join You-Know-Who! If You-Know-Who killed his parents, then maybe Neville feels like there's no point in standing up to him! Maybe he's already given into the person who murdered his parents!"

"I never said they were dead."

"Huh?" came Ron's intelligent response.

"His parents aren't dead; they're worse than dead. If Neville wants to tell you the whole story, he will – but his parents were victims of Voldemort. They dedicated their lives to the fight against Voldemort and the Dark Arts. Maybe Neville isn't as talented magically as some of the rest of us, but he would never let his parents' sacrifices be in vain."

Harry's voice had a cold finality to it. "Neville would never betray us. I know it." 

*   *   *

As quietly as he could, Neville crept back up the tower stairs. He eased open his bedroom door, being careful not to wake Dean and Seamus. Somehow he picked his way across the cluttered floor without tripping over anything and collapsed on his bed shivering. 

He didn't know how long he lay there, shaking in silence. It must have been a long time, though, because the next thing he knew the door opened again. Harry and Ron slipped through it, apparently finished with their argument. He waited until there was no movement from the beds near his before daring to take out his wand and mutter, "_Lumos_." He pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and unfolded it with trembling hands.

The feeble light of his spell just illuminated the words – the words that were permanently branded into his memory.

                                  _Neville – _

You don't have to be alone. Meet me 

_at the North Tower at midnight. We can_

_give you the power you desire._

There was no signature. Just a crude sketch of a skull with a snake for a tongue. 

Every wizard and witch in the world knew the Dark Lord's sign.

Neville stared at the parchment in his quivering hand. Then slowly, deliberately, he tore it into a thousand tiny pieces. 

He laid back down to sleep, extinguishing the light with a whispered, "_Nox._"

And if Harry noticed that a certain group of Slytherins was especially cruel to Neville the next day, he didn't say a word.


	2. Parvati Patil: Please Let Me Be Right

A/N: Have you ever wondered what the other Gryffindors think of our intrepid trio's exploits? Here is one girl whose discussion with a teacher means much more than she could dream of.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Silent Soldiers: Parvati Patil

Please Let Me Be Right

She thinks I don't know what she does at night. She has no idea that I hear her sneak out of the dormitory late at night, when she goes to meet Harry and Ron. I don't know where they go every night, but it is enough that they do.

They always get into some sort of trouble. Every year is one new danger, one new risk. They could die at any moment. I knowthat, and it scares me every time I hear Hermione slip out of bed. The problem is, _they_ don't seem to know it. Don't they care whether they die?

How do they do it? How do they always know when something is going wrong; how do they always become entangled in the whole bloody mess? Trouble just seems to sneak up on them. In a perverse way, I'm glad – it's the only way I know what's going on. When I hear Hermione sneak out of the dormitory, or when she stays in the common room far past the normal time, I have to accept that something horrible is happening again. It's the only way _to_ know – information about the school's happenings is for heroes like Harry, not for insignificant Gryffindor airheads. No one tells us anything. 

It scares me when she leaves at night. It scares me to know that every year here could be my last. My roommate is living proof that Hogwarts is not impenetrable, as so many believe. If it was, Hermione would have no need to roam the halls at night with Harry and Ron, searching for trouble – or whatever it is they do. Hogwarts can be invaded, and we're all in danger, not just those who go looking for the invaders.  

Sometimes I want to grab the three of them by the shoulders and shake them until they regain their senses. I want to scream, "Look at what you're doing! Don't you understand that you could die? You're bringing danger here, you could kill us all!" But I never do.

I know that without their late night missions, the Dark Lord would have succeeded already. I know that their interferences are part of the reason we are all still alive. And sometimes I'm glad that Hermione sneaks out, because that means I have warning. It means that if she doesn't come back to the room one night, I will have that much warning that life has gone to hell.

"Miss Patil?"

Professor McGonagall has entered the common room, where I sit before the fire. "Have you seen Miss Granger?" she asks. "I need to talk to her about the question she asked earlier."

"She turned in early, Professor," I answer. "She's been exhausted lately. I think that all her extra work has caught up with her."

Sympathy crosses McGonagall's stern face. Hermione is one of her favorite students. "I understand," she says. "I do think that she is working too hard, but…" Her voice trails off, but I can fill in what she did not say. _"But certainly Hermione can handle it if anyone can; she's so smart and talented." _Of course, McGonagall would never allow herself to show favoritism in such a blatantly obvious way.

I nod politely in agreement. No teacher would ever say that about me. I'm a no one; I'm a pureblood witch with marginal talent who can barely scrape by in Transfiguration, while a Muggle-born rules the class. Sometimes I think that's why the Death Eaters are so determined – they're scared and angry that their pure blood, carefully cultivated for centuries, will no longer be worth anything. They don't want to give up their status, and they're scared of being humiliated by the Muggle-borns accomplishments. 

"Tell her I came by when she wakes up tomorrow morning. And get some sleep yourself, Miss Patil." 

I nod. "Yes, Professor." McGonagall leaves, and I decide to go up to the dormitory. Before I do, however, I take one last glance at the portrait hole, silently begging it to open. The portrait remains stubbornly closed. 

I walk up the stairs to the dormitory. Lavender is asleep, softly snoring in her bed near the window. My bed is next. And in the last one…

Empty. Empty, just as it's been for the past three nights. The situation must be getting worse - Hermione hasn't been in the dormitory all night.

I waver; I want to run back down the stairs and tell Professor McGonagall everything. I want her to find Hermione and Harry and Ron. I want them to be safe. 

I don't move.

Only their midnight adventures have saved us before. They deserve a chance to fix things, as they are the only ones who seem to know what's going on. I have to let them try. 

They'll be okay.

They _have_ to be okay. 

I look back at Hermione's empty bed. "Come back, Hermione," I whisper.

"Don't prove me wrong."

Please review.


	3. Blaise Zabini: Just Live

They are the unsung, the forgotten. They will never be a Boy Who Lived. Yet their victories, unnoticed and uncelebrated, mean the difference between victory and defeat.

Silent Soldiers: Blaise Zabini

Just Live 

Every day I fight a war.

It isn't a loud war, or an obvious one. I don't expect to be praised for my victories, or even acknowledged for them, really. My war isn't important enough for that – yet, in some ways, it's the most important war of all.

Some people just don't see it. They don't see _me_.

Really, though, how could they? My battles are silent, lengthy, and internal.

Internal. Eternal. Funny how much the words sound alike, isn't it?

Ha ha. 

My internal, eternal battle will never be noticed; I'll make sure of it. There are too many who would love to learn about them and make my troubles – external. 

No one could ever guess. They've put us in a box; "my kind" is all about power and ambition, and we don't care whom we trample in order to get it. 

They're right, of course. But too many of them assume we're stupid as well. We aren't. Not all of us.

No one would ever guess that deep within the web of secrets, lies and deception that define the Slytherin house, people like me exist. We are just as deeply embroiled in the intrigue as anyone else is, but we have decidedly more at risk.

See, I may enjoy insulting a Gryffindor first-year, or join in with the singling out of a target to torture within my house, but there is one thing I will never do. I will never become a Death Eater.

Slytherins are ambitious, as everyone knows. We want power and we want to keep it. I am certainly no exception to that rule. So why, you ask, do I refuse to join the Dark Lord? It's a simple enough reason – I know he will lose. There are too many people like Harry Potter who would rather die than give into Voldemort, and they present a powerful force. Under the leadership of Albus Dumbledore, they will surely triumph. Not without losses, of course. The losses will be grievous and hard, but the quality that leads them to resist Voldemort will sustain them. They will fight until there is nothing left, and then still continue fighting. That is why they will win.

That is one problem with recruiting from the Slytherin ranks. While we are generally powerful and cunning, we are far more interested in saving our own skins than advancing a cause. Even the powerful families like the Malfoys, who profess the superiority of pure blood as a bedtime prayer, will turn against the Dark Lord if he looks like he might fail. The minute Voldemort seems weak, they will run like rats abandoning a sinking ship. 

It's simple logic, really. By ratios, you have three "good" houses versus the one "evil" Slytherin. Three to one. Not exactly fair odds, is it? Never mind the fact that there are plenty of Death Eaters from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor. Never mind that some Slytherins are as far from becoming Death Eaters as Dumbledore himself. 

However, many in Slytherin are too concerned with appearances to consider this logic. Slytherins are hard, calculating and cruel. If one of us ever displays any other, less desirable character traits, the older students are only too happy to correct them. Their lessons are excruciatingly painful.

They are right to be concerned about appearances. Appearance is everything. The trick is not to let the appearance become the reality. As long as I _appear _to be a young Death Eater in training, everyone will leave me more or less alone. 

Of course, it has occurred to me to simply become a Death Eater, then turn against them when the time is right. Just as so many other recruits will be doing. In fact, that would be safer, because how better to convince the likes of Malfoy that I am loyal then to have the Dark Mark branded on my person?

However, my innate Slytherin nature chafes at the idea. I want to gain power, not share it with an entire House. Especially when I know that the power presented will be so fleeting. Why should I allow myself to be drawn by promises of the world when I know that they are mere fantasy?

The Gryffindors don't understand. None of them do. None of them see the young men and women, so arrogant by day, wake up sweating in the night with nightmares of their initiation. They have never seen the Dark Mark freshly pressed into a young person's flesh, with the skin around it shiny and scarred from the brand. It is in the first few weeks that it is the most painful, and I have seen it in all stages. 

It is not sympathy I feel for my housemates, precisely. I am a Slytherin, after all. All I know is that when, late at night, I hear another person in my dormitory wake up gasping with pain and clutching at their left arm, I want to scream with rage. How can they be drawn in? How can they be so stupid? 

Yet they are safe. Every day the older students eye me strangely, and lately they have gotten more insistent, aggressive. They need to be sure I am not a threat; they want proof of where my loyalties lie. Of course, they will never receive it. My loyalties do not lie with their Lord; I will be my own master. Still, every day it becomes a bit more difficult to convince the real fledgling Death Eaters that I sympathize with and support their efforts. Each day requires me to be a bit colder, a bit more condescending, a bit crueler to the Muggle-borns. And I don't mind saying that sometimes I enjoy it. There is something very satisfying about a good round of insults and hexes – if I win, that is. Which I do, naturally. 

The older students are right in thinking I am a threat. I never plan to openly oppose them, of course; I want to live past my teen years. However, my mere existence is what they most fear – because I will not give in. I will not bow to their authority, and I will not join them. I just – survive. I am one pocket of the Slytherin House that they will never touch. 

I am not alone. I look around and see other students just like me. Sometimes I catch someone's eye, and a look of understanding passes between us. We understand that we are beyond the Death Eater's reach. We understand that the mere fact that we exist is the greatest threat to the Death Eater's power – for if they cannot reach us, we who should be most vulnerable to the promises of dark power, then whom can they really control?

I don't want to be a hero; heroes too often die too early. I don't plan to lead a rebellion from inside the Dark Lord's ranks, as some of the stupid, headstrong Gryffindors would expect. I'm just going to live. I will be a silent, passive resistance from what should be the base of Voldemort's army.

I'm going to live.

That's really all any of us can do.


	4. Justin Finch-Fletchely: Be There

A/N: The fourth of my series, an inside look at an under-appreciated House. This was…difficult to write; I don't know why. I could use some feedback on this one. 

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Silent Soldiers: Justin Finch-Fletchley Be There 

Cedric was the first.

Oh, maybe not the _very_ first. There's talk of a Ministry witch who has gone missing, Barty Crouch is dead, and there are certainly countless others that the newspapers have overlooked. But Cedric was one of us. 

Cedric was – everything. He was – and I don't mind saying this – easily the best Hufflepuff house had to offer. We know what the other houses think of us – that we're a "load of duffers," as Hagrid so eloquently puts it. And maybe we are – but we aren't supposed to be the smart ones; we leave that to Ravenclaws and Hermione. We are something else entirely.

It's funny how often people forget what we are. The Sorting Hat says it in one form or another every year, if anyone cares to listen. We are loyal. We are hard working and diligent, but most of all, we are loyal. 

That's why it wasn't so much of a surprise that Cedric was the first to die. I heard a little bit of the real story from the Gryffindors – about how Cedric insisted that Harry accept the Tri-Wizard Cup with him for a double Hogwarts victory. It's something that he would do. But You-Know-Who didn't care about Cedric's morals, or about the qualities that made him a Hogwarts champion. He only saw Cedric as something to destroy. 

I was so angry at first. Hogwarts is supposed to be safe, impenetrable even, yet Cedric was snatched from within its very borders! If Dumbledore can't protect us, than who can?

That anger was easily transferred to Harry Potter. He made it back. He came back clutching Cedric's body and babbling about evil, graveyards, and You-Know-Who.

I still can't believe that Harry can say _his_ real name. 

_Harry_ is important. You-Know-Who was after him. Of course, he's a Gryffindor. Everyone was devastated when Cedric died, but if it had been Harry the entire wizarding world would probably be forced into mourning, the Prophet would talk about him for months, and he'd probably have the entire Quidditch field named after him.

Not Cedric. Cedric was just in the way.

Just a stupid little Hufflepuff somewhere he didn't belong.

I'm still angry, but no longer at Potter. I saw him the night he returned from the Hospital Wing. He didn't see me – I don't think he saw anything. His eyes were so haunted that it scared me. He will see Cedric's death in his nightmares for the rest of his life. I knew then I couldn't be angry with him anymore – he will suffer enough without my animosity.

I'm no longer angry with Potter. My target is just a little bit larger. 

The Dark Lord will pay for Cedric's life. He has murdered someone we held dear, and for that we will destroy him. I'll probably never see it done, and I certainly won't have much part in it. But somehow, some way, Voldemort will regret taking Cedric's life.

See, Hufflepuffs are loyal. Cedric was ours – we will not let his death go unpunished. He has not died in vain. 

Most people don't know it, but anyone who has read recently published Dark Arts books – namely, Hermione – knows that Hufflepuff house turns out more Aurors than any other. We have many who work in the Department of Mysteries as well – for who would suspect the foolish, innocent Hufflepuffs to do anything secretly? When the battle lines are drawn, more often than not the Hufflepuffs make up the front ranks. 

We work hard. We don't give up. We don't have the wild enthusiasm of the Gryffindors, the quiet intensity of the Ravenclaws, or the slightly crazed shrewdness of the Slytherins, but we are strong. We keep working long after everyone else is spent, simply because someone has to. Maybe Harry Potter can collapse after a battle with You-Know-Who, but the Hufflepuffs must keep moving – Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing, the Aurors chasing after any lingering Death Eaters. Life doesn't stop because the hero is injured – the support base continues on. An army is only as strong as its support, its rank and file – and we Hufflepuffs make sure that it is as strong as it can be.

When the Gryffindors have died in noble self-sacrifice, when the Slytherins have 'calculated' their ways into an early grave, when the Ravenclaws can no longer hide in their laboratories and pretend that nothing is wrong – then maybe, people will realize what Hufflepuffs are worth.

A wizard once commented that Hufflepuffs are like weeds – there's always one popping up to take the place of another. It's because there are far more ordinary, not too bright people than there are great brains, heroes, or even villains. The time will soon come, however, that everyone will appreciate what we can do.

The Dark Lord doesn't know it, but he lost any potential support from Hufflepuff when he killed Cedric Diggory. Above any loyalty to Dumbledore or anyone else, we are dedicated to each other. There will be no Death Eaters coming from Hufflepuff for at least seven years, because each year currently at Hogwarts now owes his or her life to the memory of Cedric. 

Cedric was the first. He won't be the last.

So when the battle lines are drawn, we'll be there. 

You can count on it. 

Please review. 


	5. Terry Boot: Need Me

A/N: Arrghh. I thought Justin's chapter was hard, but it was nothing compared to this. Please review, I need feedback on this one.

**Silent Soldiers**

**Terry Boot: **_Need Me_

Do you know the exact magical theory behind the Cruciatus Curse?

Do you know why powdered root of asphodel reacts with wormwood to create the Draught of the Living Dead? What gives a mandrake its restorative powers? How to create a jinx?

I do. In fact, we all do.

It's our business, really – to know things. I and my fellow Ravenclaws are forever driven by the need to know not just what words to say, or which potions ingredients to use in which order, but _how_ and _why_ they work. It is never enough to know that _Alohomora _opens locks. We need to know how the spell was developed, who created it, what the theory is behind it, how it compensates for different types of locks, which locking spells it is useless against...in short, we need to know everything.

I don't think it such a strange trait. Even Muggles understand it. Their scientists and philosophers, much as they claim to disagree, are all searching for the same thing. Answers. Explanations. What is wrong with wanting to know the answers to everything?

The other houses don't understand. They view our common room, which looks like a library exploded within it, with disdain and amusement. They tune out our arguing over arcane literature and obscure philosophies and runes. They glare at us when we turn in rolls and rolls of parchment for a simple assignment and snigger behind our backs when someone like Hermione Granger beats everyone on a test. _Take that, Ravenclaw, _their smirks tell us. _Not so smart now, are you?_

Will they never comprehend that it isn't about the test grades, the OWL scores? It is only about the motive that drives us incessantly, obsessively; about the pure, intoxicating joy that comes from learning for its own sake. Becoming Head Boy and receiving top scores are nice, but they are only perks on the way to a greater end.

Most students believe that Hermione should have been in Ravenclaw because she's smart and magically gifted. They don't realize that Ravenclaw isn't about being smart, not necessarily. It's about the desire to _know _things, regardless of natural intelligence. The Sorting Hat once described us as "those of wit _and_ learning." We know and believe that knowledge is not a means to an end – it is an end in itself.

It might also surprise people to realize that intelligence does not translate into magical strength. Some of the most learned people in Ravenclaw do not receive better than average grades, for though they can run rings around everyone on theory, they cannot hold up in the practice exam. Why else would so many of us work in laboratories? There we can research and be useful in a way no one else can.

Yet for many people, that is not enough. I know Ravenclaw is regarded as a lesser House. The strongest go to Slytherin and Gryffindor, while the rest get shafted into Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. The attacks come from all sides. _What good do Ravenclaws do?_ our detractors ask. _Who cares about books when real people are dying and hurting? Come out of your academic fog and look at reality for a change. Wake up and make a difference!_

I try not to let it bother me. I don't need anyone else's approval to be the way I am. But I wonder sometimes: Where do the criticizers think they would be if no one had ever studied healing? If there was no law, no Ministry, no vaccinations, no deterrents for magical pests? These things did not spring from the sea fully formed. They were the fruits of years of experimentation and toil – our years. My years. As for an academic fog – someone needs to be able to look at a situation dispassionately and find a workable solution. So it can isolate us – is that really so wrong?

Where would the healers be without our potions research? What about the Aurors, with their camouflage and complex defensive spells, all exhaustively tested by Ravenclaws locked away from the world? Virtually every spell, hex, jinx, or curse used in Britain has been crafted, analyzed, and perfected, sometimes over years. The majority of that work falls to us, silent in the background, studying, working.

Some have said that we are cowards. It is true that there are few Ravenclaws in the front lines of battle. But if not for us, there would be no battlefield. There would be no victory.

Do you know that someday you will need me?

Someday they will all know that they need me.


End file.
